His Prison

He staggers out into the numbing emptiness,

The chill spring breeze cutting at every pore,

Every figment of physical and mental self

That strives to break free from the barred confines.

 

A bright white light lingers in the distance,

Ever yearning to make contact with what is real.

And yet his tangible existence turns its back,

Forever abandoning the supposed contentedness

That had been promised so long ago.

That fiery aspiration that had once burned deep

Lies as a blackened ash,

Childish dreams scattered on the hearth for all to see.

 

His already damp head makes contact with the crisp blades

As he mentally connects the shining dots

With an invisible string,

Trapped within a prism that he himself has made,

Longing for the girl with the purple flower in her hair.

 

She sits, beady eyed, rocking back and forth on the front porch swing.

The metal links tick as the bench moves seamlessly through the air,

Lulling the boy into a dazed frenzy.

He reaches out, entirely certain that his fingertips will make contact

With her smooth, rosy cheeks, will eliminate the imagined

Barrier that stands between them.

But his box impedes his attempt.

A mime without the makeup,

The painted façade that suggests a performance

Is nowhere to be seen.

 

The chilled grass crunches beneath my boots as I carelessly

Stagger across the open field.

Mind paces, heart races, as I look down upon

His complacent face, whose gaze is steadied on hers.

I remove a flask from my coat packet,

And empty its remnants into his mouth,

Agape with wonder.

 

His eyes flicker with life.

He screams out her name, then falls, unmoving, to the ground.

For a moment, our eyes meet, the girl and I,

Briefly exploring each other’s souls,

Mine too dark and hers far too bright to bare.

I sling his limp body over my shoulder,

His soft skin already turning to a pale, faded white.

A mime to be imprisoned in my box.